


Zephyr

by HelloAfternoon



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Derse and Prospit, M/M, Superheroes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-17
Updated: 2016-05-18
Packaged: 2018-06-09 02:57:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6886642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HelloAfternoon/pseuds/HelloAfternoon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dave Strider hasn't believed in anything in a long time. His hometown is saturated with crime and vigilante justice, and he only ever watches it all from his apartment window.</p><p>John Egbert is new to the superhero business, and the Eastern District of Derse is hardly an easy starting place. He's optimistic about his chances until he realizes how alone he is, and how difficult things will be, and that there's a very real possibility that the few people in his life who he cares about could suffer dearly because of him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

His name is Dave Strider. He’s 28 years old, and he has long since stopped believing in heroes.

He lives in the Easternmost district of the dark, smokey cityscape of Derse. It’s the underbelly of a much larger beast, and generally speaking, no one is here because they want to be. He was born to Derse. There’s no tourist trade, nobody vacations to this hellhole. But if you’re born here, you don’t leave. You stay and you fester and the city becomes a part of you until you can’t stand the light any more, places like Prospit too wild and bright.

Dave pulls the body onto his scummy living room carpet. His apartment is three floors up and next to a construction site. He wouldn’t be able to afford it, otherwise; the noise makes it undesirable and the neighborhood is shit. The sound of dumpsters slamming fills the night like the percussive instrument of the streets. The construction site next to his building will be a gentleman’s club by next year, although he’s never met a gentleman in a joint like that.

His brow is sweating and he’s breathing hard. He’s out of shape these days, he guesses, having been off the clock for five or six years straight.

The man he’s dragging around is one of the worst kind. People like him swarm to a city like Derse.

Vigilantes. Superheroes. Meth-heads who think hey have superpowers and people who get off on killing. They’re rarely good people. Real Supers are rare, and they tend to exist in places like Prospit where there’s little moral grey, where the crimes are well outlined and people aren’t scared to call the police.

But Derse is for guys like this one. A guy Dave should have left in the street, but couldn’t because he still has a heart, apparently.

Dave trots into his bathroom to fetch a towel. He isn’t too worried about the vigilante; he’s incapacitated and Dave is fairly certain he could take him even if he wasn’t. He’s out of shape, but one doesn’t get that many years of martial arts training beaten into them by a monster like Bro to ever, ever forget it.

His bathroom is tiny, so tiny his knees almost touch the wall when he sits on the toilet, and the standing shower is a mess of novelty kids' shampoo. At the sink is his toothbrush and razor, and hanging on a small rack above the toilet is a single towel. It used to be white, but it’s messy these days, stained by hair dye and blood. It has a couple holes poked in it, not that he minds. Nobody ever sees it, anyway.

He whips it off the rack and tucks it under his arm before he hastily strides back into the living room.

When Dave walks in, the other man groaning on the floor, body twisted, trying to get himself onto his stomach. Dave nudges him back over with his foot and leans down to put the towel under his head. He’s bleeding, but it’s not bad. Head wounds just look bad because they bleed so much, but at worst Dave would say he has a mild concussion.

“Hey, can you talk?” Dave asks.

He grunts. His lips, all of his face that’s visible, contort into a frown.

He’s wearing a dark blue bodysuit of various composite materials, no doubt at least partially bulletproof, and lightweight. It’s not bad gear, but it’s pretty basic. Knee pads and elbow pads and a lot of material over his chest, a helmet with a screen over his eyes. His face is mostly covered but Dave can see a cowlick of sweaty black hair sticking out of his helmet, which is tight to his head, a delicate apparatus no doubt ready to protect him from a gunshot. Dave knocks it with his knuckles and the vigilante winces.

“I’m-” he breathes and then gags on a mouthful of blood. His front teeth are a mess, a bit shark-like, and he has slight overbite. His teeth are red with blood.

“You’re a bloody mess is what you are, dude,” Dave mutters. “You know where you are?”

“Derse,” he grunts, “Eastern District. Who’re you?”

“Nobody. Look, what’s your name?”

The guy pauses, body rigid. “I’m the-”

“No, dipshit, I mean your _name._ ”

The guy’s mouth tightens. “Secret, obviously.”

Dave sighs and rubs his temples, a headache coming on. “Right. Of course. Makes sense. You want coffee? An ambulance?”

“Thank you,” the guy croaks. “For saving me, I mean.”

“Don’t get me wrong, bro, I’d have to be a cold heartless son of a bitch to leave you to get picked up by some junkie,” Dave says, “but don’t mistake me for a good samaritan. I ain’t fond of your kind, or you, for that matter. You look just like ever other vigilante asshole who gets killed in my neighborhood, and honestly, the sooner you’re out of my hair, the better. So, I ask you again,” Dave commands, pausing and maintaining what he hopes is eye contact behind his shades, “coffee, or an ambulance?”

The guy is quiet for a moment. Dave watches his jaw go tense. He has soft brown skin and a bit of downy stubble; he’s young, too young to be pulling this shit, but plenty young enough to try.

“Coffee would be great, thank you,” he finally says. “Cream, no sugar, if you got it.”

“That I do,” Dave sighs and gets up, taking the short walk into he adjoined kitchen.

The pot of coffee on the counter is old, so he pours it into two mismatched mugs (one chipped, the other missing its handle) and pops them in the microwave, which fizzles in reaction to what he thinks might be some kind of metal in the paint. The overhead light in his kitchen is right over the small plastic table and makes all the shadows point away from it. There are no windows, just a rug on the floor in front of the sink to catch the water he splashes out when he does dishes, and an old fridge with the freezer on the top in stead of the bottom. There are three swords in it.

He retrieves and prepares the coffee, complete with what’s left of a small carton of half-and-half from his fridge. He knows that reheated coffee isn’t much good, but he’s long since stopped being picky.

He takes both mugs back into the living room to find the guy holding his abdomen and shaking, dragging himself onto the couch.

“If you bleed on that, I’ll be pissed,” Dave says, setting his mug down on the coffee table and taking a seat in the armchair next to the couch, opposite the TV.

“Please,” the guy snorts and rolls onto the couch cushions with a lot of effort, finally relaxing, “as if it doesn’t already have permanent stains and smell like somebody farted into a hot pocket.”

Dave coughs a surprised laugh into his drink.

“You have a gun?” the guy asks.

“No,” Dave replies after smacking his lips once or twice, burned by the coffee. “Not packing.”

“Figured you’d have one, as confident as you are about letting me into your home.”

“You don’t scare me,” Dave replies. The guy watches him.

“I shouldn’t,” he replies, and then takes his cup, craning his neck so he can sip the coffee inside.

“How bad is it?”

“How bad is what?”

“You injuries, dickhead, how bad are they?”

The guy pats himself down with one hand. “I dunno. Concussion, bruises, cracked rib or two. I got stabbed in the leg, but...it’ll be fine, the wound is small and my blood stays in the suit mostly.”

“I could suture it up for you,” Dave offers without thinking.

The masked vigilante stares at him. “Thanks. Yeah, that’d be great. Hospitals are the kiss of death for guys like me.”

“Yeah, you costumed fruitcakes always wants your identities kept a secret, and then you bite the dust and we all find out about it in the obituaries anyway. Hold on, I've got first aid supplies around here somewhere,” Dave says, and begins scouring his apartment for what he might or might not have.

“I take it you aren’t a fan, then?” the guy asks loudly after him, and Dave sighs, a room away looking for the first aid kit.

“Not really,” he shouts back. “Call me skeptical or practical or hopeless or whatever you want, but you guys don't ever seem to actually do much good beyond getting your assholes pushed in by bigger, stronger guys.”

There's a silence. Dave finds his old first aid kit; it used to be an absolute necessity, back when he lived with Bro. He snatches it out of his sock drawer and walks back into the living room.

“What’s your name?” the guy asks.

“Dave. You?”

“John,” he says, smiling up at Dave, “John Doe.”

Dave snorts. “Alright, Mr. Doe,” he says, sitting on some spare room on the tiny couch. “Put your legs on my lap, I’ll see what I can do.”

“Are you qualified for this?”

“Trust me, I have steady hands,” Dave assures. “Used to stitch myself.”

“For a guy who hates Supers, you sure are being nice to me.”

Dave pauses, hauling John’s legs into his lap. “You ain’t a Super.”

“Uh, yeah I am, doofus,” John scoffs. “Why do you think I’m still alive? Or have you seriously not heard of me?”

“That’s some ego you have for a guy who got stabbed today,” Dave snaps, cutting John’s suit away from his wound with a pair of small scissors. The fibers are difficult to cut, even when they’re already broken. The guy who stabbed John must have really been going for it.

“You don’t believe I’m a real Super, do you?”

Dave sighs, pouring antibiotics on the wound with a steady hand. It cleans blood away from a short, shallow stab wound, red and bruised around the edges. “I ain’t buyin’ that you have magic powers, if that’s what you’re askin’.”

“Well, I do,” John says, somewhat smugly. “Real ones. Good ones. You must’ve been born here, right?”

“Yeah,” Dave says, dabbing at the wound with a short pieces of cloth. “Why?”

“You don’t act like you’ve ever seen Prospit.”

“Oh, you’re from _Prospit,_ ” Dave scoffs, “that explains it.”

“Explains what?”

“Oh, you know. The leather unitard, the secret identity, the unwavering, naive faith in your own immortality.”

“I’m not immortal,” John says, frowning.

“Well then, Mr. Doe,” Dave says, threading his hook needle. “You should probably get outta this business, huh?”

John sighs and then grunts when Dave begins cleaning the wound in earnest. “Hey, hush,” Dave says, “if you let something get stuck sub-dermal, this won’t ever heal.”

“I know that,” John barks and Dave raises an eyebrow.

So far, this guy has been awfully polite. Then again, maybe it’s the concussion or the wounded pride keeping him low key.

“Tone it down or I’ll yank these stitches,” Dave warns. John gives out a frustrated little huff, but grits his teeth and bears it as Dave zigzags stitches away form himself.

Dave hates blood, and honestly, he really hates threatening this guy. As much as he doesn't like guys like this, he gets it. He understands. He used to aspire to that, to heroism, to being someone who could lift Derse out of Prospit’s shadow. But that’s not a game for normal people. No amount of horrible ninja training could save him from a bullet.

He’s still just one guy. There’s no fighting fate.

He spares a glance at John. His hands are gloved, everything about him is covered up. _He takes pain well, at any rate,_ Dave thinks.

John seems like an okay guy. Dave would hate to find him dead, and he hopes he quits the hero game.

“There,” he says, sealing gauze over the wound with medical tape. “You’re all patched up.”

John groans. “My Dad’s gonna be so pissed that I ruined another suit.”

Dave laughs. “You Dad? What are you, twelve?”

John frowns. “I’m not-I’m twenty three, asshole. I’m an adult, I just-he helps me. I can’t afford this stuff, I’m fresh out of college!”

That sobers things a little bit. Fuck, this guy-he’s really just a kid, barely younger than Dave. Dave’s hand is still on his thigh, first aid kit open and bloody beside him on the couch. The ceiling fan cranks around, squeaking rustily with each rotation.

“You a college student?”

“ _Was,_ ” John huffs, arms crossed over his chest, “just graduated.”

“What’s your major?”

John’s jaw goes hard. “Biology. I was going to go into forensics.”

Dave shrugs. “You still could. You’re young.”

“I guess,” John mutters.

Dave sighs and chews his lips. “You can go now, if you want. You need a ride? I’ll get you a cab.”

“No,” John grunts. “I don’t do rides. Thanks, though. Really. For everything.”

Dave snorts as John takes his legs off his lap, swinging them over the edge of his couch. John downs the rest of his coffee, a little of it slipping out of the corner of his mouth and dribbling into his facial hair.

Dave wonders if he’s cute under there. Fuck, he’s been alone in this apartment for too damn long if he’s thinking about guys like this as if they’re...desirable, or even tolerable.

“Here, I go tit,” Dave mutters and takes their empty cups, walking into the kitchen. He’s putting hem in the sink when he hears the window open. He knows it opens because he hears it grinding along and the sound of construction gets louder.

He darts back into the living room to find John Doe with one leg out the window.

“It was nice meeting you,” John says, sunnily, and Dave’s heartbeat skips.

Then he falls out of the window, all easy confidence, and Dave runs after him, putting his head out to look around.

He’s not dead on the sidewalk. "Shit," Dave hisses, and then looks up, only to be shocked nearly into silence.

“ _Holy shit on a biscuit,_ ” Dave mutters.

There John is, midair like he belongs in the wind. The city smog seems to cradle him there. He’s not a comic book hero; he doesn’t have a proud stance of any kind, he’s just suspended in the air like a mosquito in amber in some nostalgic dinosaur movie. Like he’s balancing on something invisible. He’s smiling and his teeth are dirty from blood and coffee.

“Told you I was a Super,” he breathes, and floats up just slightly.

“You…”

“Some people think air is nothing,” he announces suddenly, and Dave swallows. “But it’s not nothing, not at all. It’s solid. It’s humidity and particles and chemicals, just like everything else. Nitrogen, Oxygen, Argon.”

“John…” Dave croaks, reeling from the sight, “ _come down._ ”

“Nah,” John chirps, his voice too optimistic and sunny for Dave to even process, “I got a breeze to catch. Thanks for your help, brave citizen!” he says, with a smug, animated salute and what Dave thinks might've been a wink.

Then, in an instant, he shoots straight up into the air like a missile, the shockwave of air that follows him so strong that it almost knocks Dave back into his apartment, rattling the windows and sending dust from the windowpane flying back into his living room.

He can HEAR John moving, like a fighter jet. He’s zooming through the air, already barely a speck in the grey sky, going faster than Dave can even imagine.

“Damn,” Dave mutters, “he wasn’t fuckin’ around.”


	2. bullet hole

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> dave meets john again, and they talk

After his run is with the flying John Doe of Derse, Dave does some digging. It’s not hard; between his job as a bartender and his time spent churning out clickbait for the online “news source” that employs him, he has time to utilize Google.

John Doe, of course, doesn’t turn up anything, but "strange blue flying asshole" certainly does.

John Doe turns out to, indeed, be an amateur Super fresh from Prospit. There are only a few photos on him, but there are already multiple facebook groups dedicated to worshiping him. Its mostly teenage girls who think he’s cute and those culty weirdos who actually believe in Supers like gods or ghosts. He seems to mostly do small time good deeds, picking cats out of trees and saving people from oncoming traffic, shit like that.

His costume is a lot less strongman-leotard than Dave would have liked. It would have been hilarious, but John Doe is a little more practical than that, thank Christ. The dark blue bodysuit usually has a hood attached to it, apparently, and comes equipped with a police baton and a simple, modern war hammer. _Close range,_ Dave thinks. _He probably packs a punch, moving as fast as he does._

Dave also spends some time cleaning up his apartment after that little stunt John pulled.

It wouldn’t be another week before he saw him again.

Dave is microwaving a hot pocket when something opens his window. He immediately knows what it is.

Nobody else could climb up to his window. There’s no way anybody would try to break in through that window, and no way it would be worth the effort, anyhow. It’s not like there’s really anything of significant value in Dave’s apartment; his TV is too old to even function properly, his laptop in an Acer that’ll have died in a month, and his swords are all completely worthless.

He sighs, gingerly removing his hot pocket from the microwave, and walks out into his living room, where John is crawling onto his couch, blood trickling out of his helmet.

There’s a bullet hole in it.

Dave almost drops his hot pocket.

“ _Holy shit,_ ” he whispers, heart suddenly doing the putter patter dance of "holy shit this guy might die in my house." He quickly puts his hot pocket on the coffee table and helps John maneuver himself into a sitting position. “Oh my god, is that a bullet hole?”

“Yeah,” John grunts, teeth gritted. Dave can see the dent of the bullet and the way it’s cracked the helmet, right at the forehead. “Honestly, I can’t hear very well sight now. Would you speak up?”

"Oh my God,” Dave groans, dragging his hands down his face. “You have a concussion. Again. And your hearing is probably impaired.”

“What?”

"I said your HEARING IS IMPAIRED.”

John flinches away. “Yeah, but you don’t have to scream at me.”

Dave spins around and paces back and forth a bit. “What are you even doing here?

John picks up his hot pocket and, rudely, begins to eat it. "I don’t exactly have many friends in this neighborhood, and you patched me up before.”

“I said I WASN’T a good samaritan, and I meant it, dickhat! And give me back my hot pocket!”

John stares at him for a moment behind his visor, and then hands Dave his food. “Fine, it’s too hot to eat anyway.”

Dave snatches it out of his hands and immediately disposes of it in the garbage.

“You know, I have half a mind to dump you out that window.”

“I can fly, it wouldn’t do much,” John says.

Dave groans. “Yeah, thanks for almost throwing me into cardiac arrest, by the way. Shit, you’re a real Super, huh? Dammit. This is really real. You're real. All that stuff I read, it was all true.”

“Yeah, I'm the real deal,” John says. Then he goes floppy and sways a bit where he’s sitting. Dave lunges forward to steady him, a hand on his chest. The material of his bulletproof vest is hard and impersonal against Dave’s hand.

“Listen up, chuck,” Dave growls, “I know you ain’t gonna like this, but I’m gonna have to take that helmet offa you.”

John shakes his head. “No, no, no,” he mutters. “You’ll be bale to identify me.”

“Shut up,” Dave mutters, “you better just make sure I don’t ever see you walkin’ the streets, then, huh? Now, take the helmet off. I need to know how much of your brain I'm gonna have to scoop out of the inside of that thing.”

John looks at him from behind his visor, gaze hard and impossible to measure. Dave matches it; if there’s anything he’s good at, it’s being unreadable from behind his shades. John can't beat him at his own game.

“Fine,” John mutters. “Yeah, okay, fine. You seem like a good guy.”

Dave moves to remove it, and John stops him. "Don't,” he mutters. “It’s mine, I’ll do it.”

Dave sits on the couch next to him and watches as John reaches to the base of his neck, hitting some kind of safety catch. The helmet clicks and makes a strange sound. The seams holding it together loosen, becoming elastic, and John pulls it tenderly off of his head, the crack in the front groaning in protest as he does so. He hisses, and Dave sees curly black hair at the base of his neck, matted with sweat and blood.

Then the helmet is off. John deposits it on the coffee table.

His profile is pretty, sweaty, and roughed up. His skin is the color of Cambara wood, a rich brown dotted with freckles on his high cheekbones and the bridge of his pointed, slightly crooked nose. His eyebrows are made of thick, coarse black hair, untrimmed as wild, and his eyelashes are so long and so naturally curly it makes Dave wonder if he’s ever considered a modeling career. He has terrible helmet hair.

Dave blinks to clear his thoughts.

He’s breathing hard, and there’s a drop of sweat gathered at the tip of his nose that drips onto Dave’s carpet.

Dave's carpet has seen worse than sweat off of a hot dude.

He turns to look at Dave, squinting slightly. There are marks on the bridge of his nose, just slight indentations. The guy wears glasses normally, it would seem. His eyes are dark blue, almost grey, and his lips are bitten and bloody.

John grins, crooked, goofy teeth and all. “Well, don’t propose to me right now,” he say smugly.

Dave snorts and looks away. “No amount of cute could make you appealing, shithead. You look like an after hours special on a High School Musical extra who went on to get arrested for brawling drunkenly in public.”

“So you admit that I’m cute,” he says.

“Yeah, you’re a real Clark Kent,” Dave grouses, “now let me see your booboo.”

John does. Dave grabs him by the jaw and turns his head and he hisses. There’s blood on his scalp, but only because the skin was broken, damaged by the impact of the bullet.

“Welp,” Dave sighs, “my diagnosis is brain damage. What a shame.”

John slaps his hand away. "Asshole. It’s just a cut. If it wasn’t, you’d be screaming at me about dying on your shitty carpet, or something.”

“Yeah, and you're lucky to be alive,” Dave says. “That helmet saved you life. You better have healing powers of some sort, or that’s gonna leave a scar.”

John shakes his head. “Nothing like that, I’m afraid. I’m more like Bat Man than wolverine.”

Dave pauses. “Why do you say Batman like it’s two words. It’s Batman. One word.”

John shrugs. “It’s just how I talk.”

 _Yeah,_ Dave thinks. _Like a big dumb idiot._

“So, do you just need a place to recuperate, or are you in hiding? Cause if you’re bein’ chased, I ain’t interested in gettin' caught up in your vigilante bullshit,” Dave says.

“I’m not being chased," John scoffs. “I just got stuck in something with some druggies here, that’s all. Interrupted a deal with some apparently bigshot cartel workers. I didn't think I’d get into the big leagues right away. I planned to just do low level stuff for another couple months until I got ahold of the city, but,” he shrugs, “I guess the city got ahold of me.”

“Yeah,” Dave grumbles, “It’ll do that. I Googled you a couple times, you know. You have a name building already.”

John looks at him, all bright eyed, terrifying optimism, smiling suddenly. His smile is lopsided like his nose. “Really? Man, that’s killer.”

“No, it’s _dangerous,_ but whatever. You wanna get yourself killed, that’s your deal. Whats your name, anyway? You hero name or alias or whatever.”

John shrugs. “I don’t know, actually. I tossed a few things around, but none of it stuck.”

“How about ‘windy asshole,’ how’s that sound?” Dave suggests.

“I was thinking, like,” John mutters, “Tornado Man, or something.”

Dave snorts a laugh. “That’s stupid.”

"Yeah, well, you try coming up with something good when your powers are wind based! I’m already halfway between a fart joke and a natural disaster, give me a break.”

“How about, ‘Hurricane blow’?”

“Shut up.”

“Cyclone?”

“Pretty sure she’s owned by DC comics.”

Dave’s eyebrows travel up his forehead. “You’re a comic nerd?”

“Not really,” John sighs, “I just-Y’know, we…”

“You buncha narcissists in unitards read your own fanfiction, huh?”

“Yeah, basically,” John replies.

“Saucy,” Dave says. “Is there porn of you?”

John slaps Dave’s thigh. “I don’t know! I’d rather not know, to be honest.”

Dave gives him a toothy grin that he hopes is charming. “You’re not bad for a nutjob vigitlante. I bet there’d be porn of you if people knew how cute you are.”

“Shut up, butthead,” John huffs.

“Oh, butthead, huh? What is this, a playground?”

John narrows his eyes at him. "Even if it were, I could still kick your ass.”

“Oh, yeah, with the soft punches of a summer breeze. I’m shakin’ in my boots.”

John snorts and fidgets. “I shouldn’t have let you see my face.”

“Relax, dude. I ain’t a snitch, and besides,” Dave sighs, “I might hate people like you, but...this is your choice. You can choose to get yourself killed and it’s none of my business.”

John smiles a little. “Thanks, I guess.”

“No problem,” Dave mutters. “Hey, you mind if I ask a couple questions?”

“Sure,” John says, dabbing at his cut with his gloved hand, “as long as they don’t pertain to my identity.”

“Yeah, yeah. I mean, about your powers.”

John looks at him suspiciously.

“Why?”

Dave licks his lips. “Well, Y’see, I make clickbait for this news site. It’s a trash rag, no joke, but I could do an article on you.”

John’s eyebrows shoot up and he grins. “Really? Gosh, that’d be super!”

Dave muffles a laugh. This guy talks like he really is a cartoon super hero.

“Yeah, yeah! The whole nine yards. I’ll be your Lois Lane, your Karen Page, your April O'Neil.”

“I’m pretty sure none of the ninja turtles ever fucked April, if that’s what you’re getting at with this.”

Dave shrugs. “Yeah, they’re all probably underage. Anyway, point is, my Buzzfeed lookin’ ass could get your name out there. That’s what you types want, right? The spotlight?”

“I dunno,” John says, hugging his knees to his chest. Dave doesn’t even care that John’s heavy treaded boots are on his couch. “I’m new to this whole hero thing. Obviously, i mean, I already blew my identity, sort of.”

“Yeah, bit of an amateur move there.”

"Thanks,” John grouses. “Anyway, I guess-I don’t know what I want yet. Shit, I don’t even have a proper name for myself.”

Dave swallows. He shouldn’t have gotten to know this guy, even a little. This is only the second time they’ve met, and Dave is letting this Super sit on his couch like a friend. He guesses he’s just too lonely to say no.

“It’ll come to you. Something dumb and pretentious, I’m sure.”

“Will you really write an article about me?”

Dave shrugs. “If you give me enough to work with. I mean, my audience doesn’t give much of a shit about vigilantes-”

“Heroes.”

“-but I’ve written enough about life-hacks and record breaking frenchfry consumption to last a lifetime.”

John pauses and fidgets. “Okay then, Lois lane.”

Dave smiles. “It's a deal, Superman.”

John smiles back. “What do you want to know?”

Over the next couple of hours while Dave cleans the cut on his head, John divulges a bit about his powers and his objectives. He’s a simple guy, Dave discovers; his entire modus operandi is “do good things the right way,” and it’s honestly so naive that Dave almost wants to wrap him up in a quilt and tuck him somewhere safe until he matures and figures out what a load of bullshit he’s spouting.

John’s powers are more than just flight, it turns out. Enhanced strength, the ability to manipulate the wind, ability to turn into mist. That raises some questions-how does he do it, what are the limits, what if some of his mist self is stuck somewhere when he reforms-but Dave doesn’t ask much.

“I guess that’s why this place hasn’t chewed you up and spit you out,” Dave mutters, typing the last of his notes into a word document. “You have a good set of powers, even for a Super. Like, you got extra stuff.”

"Um, thanks,” John says. “Got ‘em from my Dad.”

“Your dad a tornado or something?”

John laughs. "No, he’s-it’s genetic.”

Dave pauses, fingers over the keys. “Not always,“ he says. “Some of us don’t get it, even if it’s in our blood.”

John stares at him. Dave wishes he wouldn’t.

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be, it’s not-I never wanted it. Bro wanted me to want it. Fuck, I shouldn’t have-it doesn’t mean anything. Not all of us want to be heroes.”

John stares, waiting quietly for proof that Dave is okay. Dave’s heart flutters. It’s been a long time since anyone has looked at him like that, waiting to make sure he’s alright, caring about him. Not that he doesn’t have family, because he does-he’d do anything for Rose and Dirk-but…

John’s eyes are wide and intense and wreathed with thick, dark eyelashes and they look at Dave like he cares, so sincerely and genuinely that Dave _believes_ it.

Dave swallows, uncomfortable. “It’s fine, really. I’m tough as nails, no chemical or supernatural enhancements needed.”

John breathes out and nods. “My Dad was The Gambler. You know, back in the old days.”

Dave's eyebrows go up, and he's thankful for the subject change. “No shit. That guy was a big deal.”

“Yeah, he was...he was really something. Don’t mention that in the article, though, I'd hate to have people knocking on his door because his son is in danger again, hehe...”

Dave watches John carefully as he fidgets, his padded, protective gloves hiding the skin of his hands.

“Your Dad push you into this?”

"No, no!” John says. “He...didn’t want me to follow in his footsteps, actually. When my mom found out he was a Super, that her son could be a Super, she left him. He knew it would...I dunno, change how people saw me.”

Dave frowns. "I’m sorry, that’s some bullshit.”

“It’s no big deal,” John says, shrugging. “I was a baby, it’s not like I knew enough about her to miss her. What about you; parents, siblings?”

“Yeah,” Dave says, “two brothers. One dead.”

“No parents?”

“No.”

John just nods. Dave is thankful for the lack of pity. He doesn’t know if he’ll survive another caring, gentle look from this guy.

When John leaves, it through the window, his helmet back on, bullet hole and all. That night, Dave lies in his bed with a bag of Doritos and pounds out an article.

Does Sex Sell a Superhero?

He snorts and hits enter. How does he write a piece on John? His notes give him plenty to work with, but it’s all just stuff about his powers. Supers aren’t exactly news any more. Dave rubs his chin.

It starts small, with a couple of clunky sentences about John’s appearance and powers, his uniform and his various deeds of good as reported by the local news. And then it snowballs. Then it becomes about something a little too personal, and Dave can't hold back his skeptical, angry tone, even when he's writing about a symbol of hope.

He ends up calling John Doe the Blue Hammer of East District, and then shuts his laptop and turns off his bedside lamp. He has work tomorrow.


	3. home base

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> dave gets pseudo stalked by a superhero, and then flirts with that superhero  
> (warning for brief, referenced self harm)

Dave is walking home from work when he gets yanked into an alley. It goes predictably.

Dave is trained, but he hates violence. He’d rather give these two guys the five bucks in his wallet than fight them, even if there’s a real possibility that he could win. So he holds up his hands when one of them points a knife at him, and the other searches all of his pockets in a wicked mad hurry.

He wishes they wouldn't be so rough with him, though. He's gone a little doughy and soft over the years.

Then, just as his wallet has been found, something spins past his left ear from behind him and slams the guy holding the knife right in the nose with a loud, messy crack. Dave jolts, but before the metal thing even hits the ground, a blue blur plucks it out of the air like a cheerleader's baton and fuck, he knows _exactly_ who it is.

“Hey!” the other guy, terrified out of his wits and barely twenty, shouts. “What the fuck are you doing, asshole!”

Dave rubs his forehead.

John is still in the air, held aloft by nothing at all, above the steaming garbage and wet bricks. Dave never noticed, but his visor glows slightly, probably some glow in the dark shit he got for cheap, but it adds a nice effect to his overall more practical look. His hood is up and his mouth is an unreadable line. The war hammer, small but made of hard metal, is clenched in his hand.

“Shit,” the guy whimpers, “that’s a fuckin’ _Super,_ man, a _real one_ -hey, Murray, get up, we have to go!” he shouts, dragging the body of the man with the broken nose up off the ground.

“We’re sorry, okay?! Shit, we’re _sorry!_ ” the guy wails, his friend stumbling to his feet. Dave moves easily out of the way as they run past him, brushing his jacket off.

Once they're gone, John floats to the ground.

“You didn’t have to do that, y'know,” Dave accuses.

“Yeah I did,” John insists, “what if they hurt you? Got your credit card?”

“Debit,” Dave says, “I’d cancel it as soon as I got home, and don't worry, I’ll be fine. I do my fair share of ass kicking. How’d you know I was in trouble?”

John bits his lip. “I didn’t, I…”

Dave closes his eyes, disturbed very slightly and flattered less slightly. “You watch my route home.”

“I’m-It’s not stalking!” John insists, hands held up defensively in front of him.

“Sure it isn’t.”

“I’m serious, Dave! What if somebody saw me with you and figured I was your friend? You could be in danger, and it would be my fault!”

“You don’t have that kind of notoriety.” Not yet, anyway.

“Well, whatever! Point is, if you’re my Lois Lane, I have an obligation, alright? I keep an eye on you. I figured it’s only fair, after those times you helped me out.”

“Yeah, don’t piss yourself just yet. The article I wrote about you wasn't exactly flattering.”

“I know,” John sighs, walking forward, “I figured it wouldn’t be. You-You don’t seem to like me much.”

Dave sighs and rubs his forehead. Fuck, why does he always gotta be such a prickly bastard? This is why he only has, like, two friends. They're both related to him biologically, which makes it more of a friendship born from filial obligation, anyway.

“I don’t-I like you just fine, John. There’s just no reason for me to get attached, not with you in your profession.”

“You have something against Supers, or something?” John asks. Dave barely contains a frustrated groan.

“No, I just-I just think y’all ain't any better than the average guy.”

John frowns, looking confused. “Of course not, who thinks that?”

“ _A lot of people,_ it may surprise you to know,” Dave retorts harshly. “What I’m sayin’ is, people treat you guys like benevolent gods or saviors or some shit. But you ain’t good; you ain’t anything you don’t _choose_ to be, and all too often people with that kinda privilege-that kinda _power_ -make the _wrong fuckin’ choices_.” Dave says.

John’s shoulders go stuff and his mouth twists into a subdued grimace. “You think I made the wrong choice?”

"No, no, that’s not...that’s not what I’m saying,” Dave groans, rubbing his face. “Look, do we have to have this conversation in an alleyway? It stinks like piss and garbage out here.”

“I can’t exactly swing by the malt shop looking like this,” John says, gesturing to his getup.

“Yeah, I can't pass you off as a family friend. This ain’t an anime and you ain’t no Mew Mew Power girl, somebody is bound to call the cops or the press or something else shitty like that.”

“Hey, how about I fly to my place and meet you there?” John asks, shifting forward slightly. “It’s not that far, only a few blocks from here. ”

Dave frowns. “You live near me?”

John shrugs. “Rent is cheap in your neighborhood.”

Dave scoffs. “Because of the construction.”

“And the strip clubs every two feet,” John nods. “There’s a Popeyes, though, so it has that going for it,” he jokes, and Dave actually laughs.

“Okay, yeah. I gotta swing by my place first. What’s your address?”

“Just down this street. Here, I’ll write it down. You have a pen?”

"I have a fuckin' cellphone, like most people.”

“That’ll do.”

John gives Dave his address. Once he’s gone, Dave is stricken by the notion that he now has a superhero’s home address.

He makes the short walk to his apartment and grabs a clean shirt. He brushes his teeth real quick, and wonders why he’s putting up pretense for a Super, anyway. He continues to think about this as he tries on three different shirts, before finally settling on an old favorite with a record on it.

He resolves that he must be put off by the guy being cute, but him being cute has nothing to do with anything, because he’s a Super and nobody who gets jiggy with Supers lives for very long.

Dave locks up his apartment and puts his stun gun in his bag (a drawstring backpack from his brief college days) before he heads out.

John’s apartment complex is shitty. Dave has walked by it before, and when he sees it again, he raises his eyebrows. He figured that John could afford something better, but he guesses not. He rings in and gets up to the second floor, knocking on the door marked with a little note.

The note reads:

hey dave!! i dont know when youll get here but just knock and ill be right out :B

_He drew a smiley face,_ Dave thinks, _and it has his buck teeth._ He smiles without thinking and takes the note in his hand, looking it over.

The doorknob rattles and he jumps slightly, quickly shoving the note into the pocket of his airtight skinny jeans. Then the door swings open and John is standing there, in civilian clothing, roughed up both otherwise looking very much like a normal human being. He smiles when he sees Dave, broad and genuine.

“Hey! Sorry, uh, come on in,” he says, stepping out of the way. Dave nods and walks into John’s place.

It’s clean, and devoid of any real signs that a person lives in it. The air smells of a recent carpet cleaning and stale dust, and although Dave can't detect any cologne on John, he smells pleasantly of orange peels and flour.

"Jesus, this place is barren. You squatting, or something?”

"No, I live here,” John huffs. “I just don’t have much...stuff. Not yet, anyway. I mean, this isn’t exactly a permanent home. Oh!” he says, snapping his fingers. He’s wearing a light blue cardigan and a pair of Khaki shorts so ugly that they make Dave want to shrink into his own skeleton. “You haven’t met Casey!” John says with a grin, and marches past Dave into what Dave assumes is a hallway leading to his bed and bathroom.

“Who’s Casey?” Dave asks after him.

“Um, my daughter, obviously!” John shouts back.

Dave just stands there, suffering from vertigo. It’s weird to see John looking so...human and bare and...well. He looks okay and like a regular guy, like someone you’d meet at the library. Dave knows that’s how they get away with violent crime, that that's how Supers manage, but...it’s so oddly personal that it makes Dave feel nervous.

John comes back holding a little plastic terrarium. Between his sitting area and kitchen is a bar, functioning as a kitchen table Dave would guess, from the empty takeout tins. As he sets it down, Dave leans over his shoulder to get a good look.

It’s an orange salamander and it has little black spots. Dave smiles a bit.

“She’s in this shitty terrarium right now because I just moved here, but soon I’ll be able to buy her a proper big aquarium with nice stuff in it.”

“She’s your daughter, huh?”

John sighs. "Yeah, like that dumb movie. I was a huge fan when I was a kid, and my Dad-he’s never let me live it down. He got me Casey for my birthday last year, and I just...I couldn’t rename her.”

Dave smiles. “Like, Con Air?”

John flinches. “Yeah, I was...a weird kid…”

 _Not as weird as me,_ Dave thinks.

John is very slightly taller than Dave is, and unlike Dave, his shoulders are broad and strong. The thickness of the suit bulks him out and he’s realistically thinner than he appears, but he’ still very impressive. His physique is one that Dave has seen mostly in movies and through the windows in the local YMCA. Dave’s own chest is far less sculpted, and honestly he has a bit of a belly these days, not that he minds.

“Supers gotta be weird kids. How’d your dad take care of you, with all that shit goin’ on?”

John shrugs. “My powers didn't really hit until puberty. Then I was a flying teenager, and _boy,_ that was hard to keep under wraps. I wanted everyone at my school to know,” John says, smiling fondly down at his shoes. “I was so proud, y’know. My dad being who he is, and all. I look up to him.”

Dave sobers a bit. “Yeah, I...yeah. That makes sense. He did a lot of good in Propsit.”

Bro wasn’t much of a super, as far as supers go. Dave remembers him and his strange powers.

Very slight mind control. That was all it had been in Bro’s case, and in Dirk’s, but it had been enough. It almost wouldn’t be provable as a Super ability if Dave hadn’t seen him manipulate people with his mind only. He could change minds and feelings like it was easy. He could make your forget how you felt, or prevent you from feeling anything at all, just with his thoughts. He could reduce you to a puppet. He’d done it to Dave, once or twice, or maybe more.

Dave swallows.

“My Dad’s powers were different from mine a bit. He couldn’t fly or anything. He had some wind manipulation abilities, but I think most of his powers had to do with luck or manipulating the odds or something. I don’t know, it was always a little too abstract for me to understand.”

Dave’s brow furrows. "Powers can change between generations?”

John shrugs. “Sometimes, yeah. You didn’t know?:

"No, I...I never really bothered to investigate it much.”

“Well, they do. I mean, in the rare cases where they manifest at all, they’re usually pretty much identical, but not always. It’s a tiny hint of a percentage, but hey,” John smiles, “here I am.”

Dave watches him quietly for a bit, and John seems to get a little bit uncomfortable. “Hey, um, you hungry? Want a drink?”

“You have beer?” Dave asks. John smiles.

"Only fruity, strawberry flavored ale.”

Dave groans. “Ugh, that syrupy shit. Like drinking unicorn cum straight from the tap. Fine, pour me one. We’ll talk about this whole superhero thing when we’re drunk.”

John grins that lopsided grin of his and Dave finds himself smiling and slipping his backpack off onto the carpet. John’s couch is less comfortable than his, but also newer. There’s no TV in his sitting room, just a small end table and another chair, pointed towards the kitchen.

They do get a little buzzed, but not full on drunk, not with only a case of fruity beer to share between the two of them. Dave drinks and John talks about how Supers aren’t all that bad. They argue a bit, but it’s a good natured sort of arguing where Dave doesn’t really even have any stakes in winning or losing as long as he’s talking to John.

They clink together the last beers of the case and take a swig at the same time.

Dave burps. “Where’s the bathroom?" He asks.

John snorts. “Down the hall, Romeo. Don’t piss on my toilet seat.”

Dave just nods and gets up, walking back down the dark hallway and opening a door that leads into John's bedroom with a quiet "oops," and then the correct door after that. He pees and thinks while he’s holding his own dick in his hand.

Man, it’s been a while since he’s drunk with anybody. One would think that, as a bartender, he’d drink frequently, but he usually doesn’t. It’s a bad habit, and he finds himself using it as an escape too much. Rose calls that _emotional dependency,_ and Dave would rather be emotionally dependent on something more benign, like video games or bad coffee.

He shakes his dick, flushes the toilet, washes his hands, and walks back out to join John.

“Ugh,” John grumbles. “It’s dark out. You want to stay over, maybe?”

“Nah, I’ll just get a cab,” Dave says, yawning and stretching. The hem of his shirt rises up when he does it, and John glances at him, just for a second and out of the corner of his eyes. Dave pauses, a smirk sliding across his face.

"Hey, John?”

“Yeah?”

"Did you just check me out?”

John's gaze snaps up to look at him, eyes wide and accusing like he’s ready to deny it, but then he just tucks his chin down and looks away. “No! No. Well, maybe. Maybe? Yeah, I don’t know. I don’t...with guys. I don’t.”

Dave snorts. “Ah, you’re one of _those._ ”

“What, straight?”

"No,” Dave singsongs, “in _denial._ ”

John glares at him. "I’m not in denial about anything! I really prefer women.”

"Dude, if you’re desperate enough for a little man lovin’ that you’re checking MY flabby ass out, you’re gayer than you think.”

“You’re not flabby, shut up,” John says gruffly, downing the rest of his beer from his seat on the couch. Dave sits down on the chair, scratching his thigh and smacking his lips.

“Yeah, well, I ain’t exactly the kinda guy who makes other guys second guess their sexuality, y’know.”

“I’m not second guessing anything,” John mutters, eyes glancing back at Dave.

“You, on the other hand,” Dave says, pointing at John, “you look like a model. Maybe a sports model, with that broken nose an' the teeth an' all, but y’know...the kinda guy who could be on a magazine cover.”

“Nah,” John says, seeming suddenly bashful. “I’m-it’s not pretty under the clothes. I went through training, I’ve been shot a couple times. There are scars.”

"So?” Dave shrugs. “Dude, I’m COVERED in scars. Here, look,” he says, and yanks the sleeve of his shirt up. “See this?” There are childhood scars striping across his arm. He doesn't normally like showing them-it tends to garner more pity than he's comfortable shouldering-but he sympathizes with John's insecurity. It's a hard thing to get over, having a body that nobody really aspires to, or that people would worry about you for having.

“Shit,” John breathes, “that’s intense...did…did you do that?”

Dave laughs. "No, nothing like that." Mostly. "I did combat training when i was a kid, with real swords, because my brother is a fucking idiot and wouldn’t know how to raise a child if he’d been given a thousand do-overs. No, he was just a negligent piece of shit, and me an’ Dirk got hurt.”

John chews his lip. “Your other brother?”

"Yeah. Funny thing, he got the Super shit from Bro. He has the whole,” Dave makes a gesture around his head, vaguely, “mind control thing.:

Johns eyebrows go up. "Mind control? Like the Empress?”

“Nothing that severe, it’s more like...extreme emotional manipulation, if that makes sense.”

John frowns. “That doesn’t sound particularly useful.”

“It wasn’t really, but Bro was a destructive piece of shit, and back then, so was dirk, so they both used the hell out of it. On each other, sometimes, and that was a real shitshow. Destroying each other's emotions. That’s what they did, you know. That’s what they had the power to do.”

John frowns deeper still. “I didn’t know Supers like that existed. I mean, I guess I knew that they MUST, but...”

Dave shrugs. “They don’t exactly make the news, the ones with small-time, less useful powers. My cousin, Rose-she can tell the future, kind of. But it’s not useful enough or powerful enough to make her into some kinda vigilante, so she just knows to pack up her shit when she’s gonna get fired from a job, or how to avoid a fight.”

“I guess I see what you mean.”

"About what?”

“About Supers not all being...great.” John says. Dave watches him as he mulls it over. “I mean, if you were raised by a shitty Super...it’s no wonder, right? I guess...in Prospit, the only Supers who reliably make the news are the good ones, y’know? Like the gambler.”

Dave watches him carefully, watches the way his hands move, the way he looks intently at the carpet. “You ain’t bad, for a one of them. I mean, your heart’s in the right place. Most Supers go commercial or get corrupt or...y’know, die.”

John snorts and smiles wryly. “Thanks,” he says. “You aren’t bad for just a regular guy who can’t fly.”

Dave smirks. “Thanks. I’m gonna call a cab.”

He does, and they schedule a pickup for him quickly. When eh gets a text saying the cab is waiting for him in the parking lot, he packs his things up and gets pulled into a hug by John, who hugs long and hard and annoyingly well. His chest is hard but warm, and he holds Dave so tightly that his belt buckle digs into Dave's belly.

“Be safe,” John sighs, letting him go. Dave’s heart flutters again. When has anyone ever said that to him? He always wondered what it would be like, to have somebody who would hug him like that and say something like that every time he left the house, even if he was just traveling a few blocks. John looks genuinely concerned and sad to see him go.

He guesses that’s what separates a Super like John from one like Bro.

God, Dave shouldn’t get involved, but...

Dave’s hand lingers on John’s hip.

“Hey, um,” Dave says, “not to shoot myself in the foot with you, Mr. Straight McHeterosexual,” he says, fidgeting, “but,uh...you ever wanna do some experimenting, maybe, uh, try out the ol’ bologna pony carousel ride,” he coughs, “I’m around.”

John stares at him, and then grins, looking down and away. “Are you asking for a hookup?”

“No, uh,” Dave says quickly, “a date. I was thinking more along the lines of the date. Again, if you’re really set on the whole women thing, I’ll be fine with a bottle of KY jelly and RedTube, but…”

“Who says I’d fuck you, even if I did decide to go on a date with you?”

Dave tries out what he hopes is a cool and suave smirk. “You wouldn’t be able to resist.”

John laughs and pushes Dave’s shoulder. “Ugh, whatever! You think you’re such hot shit.”

"I _know_ I am,” Dave says.

“Alright, fine. Get outta here. I’ll see you around, next time I’m stopping a bank robbery or something.”

And boy, that kills the mood a little. John is still a vigilante. John is still one of _those people,_ he’s still in danger. Dave’s grip on the strap of his backpack tightens.

“Yeah, see ya ‘round, broseph stalin.”

When Dave gets back to his apartment he gets a call from Rose. She wants to know that he’s still alive, that he hasn’t found some hell to fall into just yet. It's a regular check-in, but he’s happy to hear from her.

“I met a guy,” he says, shutting the door to his fridge with his foot.

“Oh, another one?" she replies. Dave holds back a snarky comment.

“Yeah, but he’s…”

“ _Special?_ Oh, Dave, sweetheart, how...uncharacteristically romantic of you.”

“I just mean he’s a nice guy,” Dave says, flopping down on the couch with some string cheese, phone clamped to his ear by his shoulder, switching the TV on. “He’s this Super from my neighborhood.”

There is a long pause on the other end of the line. “Dave, that’s…”

“I KNOW, I know its stupid, I promise. This time you don’t have to _tell_ me what a raging idiot I am, because I’m well aware that I’m thinking with my dick and my dokidoki heart more than I am my brain. But he’s a good guy, Rose. I just hate to see him die here.”

“Well,” Rose sighs, “maybe he won’t, who knows. Some of them are successful!”

“Yeah,” Dave grunts, “less than two percent commercially make it, and this guy isn’t even endorsed by anyone. He has no alliances except for me and his dad.”

“Whats his name?” Rose asks. Dave pauses, and then chuckles dryly.

“John Doe.”

“Dave…”

"I know, I know! I’m aware, I’m...God, Rose, can’t you just future-peek and tell me how this shit ends, spare me the heartbreak?”

She sighs. “That’s not how it works, Dave. I can only see paths to success, and only sometimes.”

“Then tell me,” he says, biting the string cheese. “How do I succeed with John?”

She’s quiet for moment.

“I don’t know. I can’t see anything.”

Dave huffs out a tense breath.

“That doesn’t necessarily mean what you think it means,” she assures quietly, which is probably her attempt at gentleness. Dave appreciates it.

“It means there IS no path to success.”

“Or it means that sometimes my powers don't work perfectly, which is true. This is...strange, but...I’m not going to say that this is a good idea, because I’m personally of the opinion that you’re way over your head, but...he might surprise you.”

Dave snorts. “He already has."

**Author's Note:**

> "why isnt the written in second person?" bc i dont read hs fics really and i cant jive to that


End file.
